Contraries

Contraries
Without Contraries is no progression.
Attraction and Repulsion, Reason and Energy,
Love and Hate are necessary to Human existence.
– William Blake,
The Marriage of Heaven and Hell
Peter Atkinson
Founder
Monica Bushling
Chief Editor
Monica David
Senior Prose Editor
Jacob Cornwell
Prose Editor
Cristina Carvajal
Senior Poetry Editor
Andrew Hicks
Poetry Editor
Johanna Duncan
Art Director
Kate Peterson
Web Manager
© 2015 Contraries Journal. All rights to works published in Contraries are under the
ownership of their respective authors.
All works published in Contraries are fictional.
Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the authors’ imaginations,
and any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead,
is entirely coincidental.
Requests to reprint any content should be sent to:
Contraries Journal
c/o Monica Bushling
5050 Ave Maria Blvd.
Ave Maria, Florida 34142
contraries.amu@gmail.com
ContrariesJournal.com
Acknowledgements
The editors would like to thank Michael Novak, Julie Cosden,
and Noah Blanchard for their continued dedication to this project
and the sacrifices they have made on its behalf,
as well as all the members of the Literature Department,
whose love for literature continues to inspire students
in both creative and critical endeavors.
Excelsior.
Contents
The Vanishing Point Paulina Pecic
On Childhood Catie Crnkovich
Drifting Through Time Betsy Peloquin
First Love Renee Marie Philomena Therese Kray
Summer Showers Catherine Glaser
Ode to Silence Jacob Cornwell
(For This I Am) Lost Cristina Carvajal
Imagination Tree Nathan Pacer
A Pale Yellow Circle Catherine Glaser
The Black Paintings Carl Bishop
Weeks Go By Paulina Pecic
Alma Amans Peter Atkinson
Enthralled Allie Dawson
Lost Tony Powers
The Vending Machine Emily Rose Reed
The Choir Invisible Monica David
Walkway in the Dunes Nathan Pacer
The Doomed Flight Monica Bushling
Vespard’s Emporium Jacob Cornwell
Buffalo Jacob Cornwell
Art
Mother and Child Carolyn Dufresne
The Awakening of Spring Abigail Starcher
Idyllic Shade Tree Daniel Dikman
Transparency Carolyn Dufresne
Stained Paulina Pecic
Marian Teresa Beasley
Still Life Lauren Dionne
Speaking Through Silence Carolyn Dufresne
Buffalo on a Bench Monica Bushling
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Paulina Pecic
The Vanishing Point
T
he pier was
a good place for writing. Or sketching. Or even just daydreaming—
that is, if you didn’t mind the stench of fish insides wafting to your nostrils ev-
ery now and then. When you grow up in a beach town, I guess you get used to it. One
thing you don’t get used to (at least I never did) is the twinkling glare of sunlight on
the water: a million little specks of glitter dancing to the rhythm of capillary waves. I
used to think it was magical, but one day, I stared at them for too long and spent the
rest of the afternoon with my vision clouded by ghostly floating dots.
I had a habit of putting my pen down and closing my eyes to picture the
musical laps of water below my feet. You could say I didn’t get much work done,
but I guess that depends on your definition of “work.” In a single moment, only one
reality concerned me: the reality that, veiled beneath the sun-bleached planks, liquid
knolls crashed into creaking wooden posts before returning to the abyss.
A single cluster of popcorn along the horizon disrupted the continuous
blanket of blue sky, and an incessant Atlantic breeze made the South Floridian humidity somewhat tolerable. Eventually, I fixed my gaze on an airborne albatross just
a few feet in front of me and, in amazement, watched as its wing feathers fluttered
while the wings remained stiff, unyielding, flapping only when necessary. The seabird
let the wind do most of the work as it hovered in place, seemingly frozen in time.
Periodically, it would fall a few inches or feet before drifting up once more. There was
no cadence to the bird’s movement; it simply followed the spontaneous gusts.
“Mesmerizing, huh?”
The voice that cut through my thoughts was a familiar one. It came from
behind me—a warm baritone, resonant with crisp consonants that complemented
his fluid vowels. I didn’t answer; I couldn’t. Suddenly cemented to the roof of my
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mouth, my tongue had swelled in response to a tightness at the back of my throat.
“You’re still wearing it?” the voice prodded.
I shrugged, blinking, and mechanically tucked the auburn strands of my
ponytail behind my ears—only to have them whip right out of place and flog my
freckled nose again. A strange silence surfaced in the midst of erupting seaspray, the
distant laughter of a five-year-old chasing his golden retriever along the shore, and
clacking pelicans that surrounded a bunch of chatty fishermen at the gutting table. I
wanted to ignore it—that deafening, unbearable speechlessness. But despite the lucid
potential of my mind’s eye, I’d never been able to imagine away his presence. Not
once since the day I’d met him.
I remembered that it had been a cold day—uncharacteristically cold for
South Florida, even in December. I remembered sitting at the university shuttle stop,
shivering underneath three layers of cotton turtlenecks, when a complete stranger
offered me his hat, insisting that covering my head would make me warmer. I remembered how reluctant I’d been to oblige, especially after I’d noticed the unnecessarily monumental crucifix around his neck. I remembered the venom in my voice
when I’d pointed out its size and added that I hated religion as much as I hated the
cold. I remembered the genuineness of his forgiving smile. And the warmth that it
suddenly stirred from somewhere deep within me—a place that I hadn’t known existed. I remembered how his gaze had penetrated mine when he asked for my name
and then told me that his was Jesse.
“Yes,” I murmured at last. “It is mesmerizing.”
After another moment, I felt the curve of the bench depress slightly as he
sat down, still keeping his distance. “It’s beautiful.”
“Painful,” I corrected automatically, shifting a little further away from him.
“At least in the beginning, right? I don’t suppose he just leaves the nest knowing how
to fight the wind like that.”
In the stillness, I knew he was shaking his head. I just knew. My fingers
curled around the corners of the notebook in my lap. And like a breathless wind,
I felt my heart drop into the hollowness of my gut when he let out a quiet, all-toofamiliar sigh. “He doesn’t fight it,” he said finally. “That’s what’s beautiful. He uses it
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to his advantage.”
My eyes burned. I told myself it was the salty air. “That doesn’t make the
struggle any easier.”
“No,” he admitted, though I didn’t think he meant it.
I glanced down at the open notebook. The words began to blur, so I looked
away and cleared my throat.
“You’ve been writing.”
“Song lyrics,” I said.
“May I?”
I wanted him to see them. I imagined how his eyes would pore over every
pen stroke.
Where church bells ring and choirs sing
The empty love, she waits, she waits
The empty love, she waits
For tomorrow, she waits
In an eternal today
“Mary.” I imagined that his typically musical voice would sound dimmer,
harsher, like the dissonant echoes of a far-off flock of seagulls. And my name, once
dulcet upon his lips, would somehow taste bitter.
My heart would rise to my throat and I’d dig my nails into the sides of my
arms, biting my tongue until I could taste the metallic flavor of blood. I’d want to
scream with everything inside me. But I’d press my fist against my lips instead, and
feeling my teeth brand their impression into my flesh, I’d clench my eyes shut.
His gentle fingers on my shoulder would cause me to shudder, dispatching
an electric pulse of conflicting responses through my bloodstream. Anger, struck
suddenly by affection. Blazing joy, snuffed by despair. Surprise, love, loneliness,
coursing and colliding all at once! And his melancholic melody would be tenderer
now, warmer. “I know you feel like I’m being selfish, but I seriously need to discern
what God—”
“Just leave!” I’d shout, throwing my hands over my ears.
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“Mary!”
“I’m sorry, OK? Just…please…stop. I get it.”
“Just talk to me about it,” he’d plead, his voice cracking. “I have to know
that you’re going to be OK.”
Moving my fingers up to grip the roots of my hair, I’d shake my head and
groan. “What do you want to hear, Jesse?”
After a pause, he would speak more quietly, his desperation evoking a feeble
sensitivity. “The truth.”
“How many times?” I’d let go of my hair and grasp the edge of the bench
on either side of my knees. Then I’d fix my glare on the splintering, discolored
boards beneath my feet. “You know the truth. Going into the seminary is one thing.
But two more months, Jesse!” My voice would catch in my throat, and I’d take a moment to gasp, swallow it away, and breathe. “Two more months, and we would have
been saying our—”
“What do you expect me to do?!” His own timbre would rise, trembling.
“Ignore my call? Abandon my vocation? Marry you anyway?!”
“No, Jesse! God, no!”
“Then what?”
But I didn’t show him the lyrics.
“Mary?” The palm of his outstretched hand lay open in my peripheral vi-
sion. Instead, I clutched my notebook to my chest and shook my head, turning completely away this time.
I could tell that he was hurt by my refusal, and another minute—or hour—
of agonizing wordlessness passed between us. Eventually though, he surrendered
with a sigh. “I shouldn’t—I guess…” The fluid nature of his voice had hardened into
monotony. “It’s probably better if I just—well, I don’t even really know why I came
here in the first place.”
In that moment, I considered facing him, but I hesitated. Then, deciding
against it, I lowered my gaze, slid the little silver circle off my finger slowly, and held
it out to Jesse without a word. I felt his weight lift from the bench after he took it,
and I tuned my ears to the fading of his footsteps. When they were out of earshot,
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at last, I turned to glance in his direction.
I watched the familiar silhouette—the same one that had walked ahead of
me to hold open the chapel door at Mass every Sunday; the same one that had faced
the whiteboard, covered with phrases like “Communion of Saints” and “Theology
of the Body” scribbled in his chicken-scratch handwriting, at RCIA classes two years
ago; the same one that I caught, on a Friday evening, kneeling before the Blessed
Sacrament when the church was supposed to be empty; the same one that was now
shrinking into an indistinguishable dot.
Overhead, the clouds that had stippled the horizon were no longer stipples
and no longer anywhere near the horizon. The gentle lapping of the waves below me
had grown into louder swishes. And when I turned my gaze back to the albatross, it
had flown away.
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Mother and Child
Carolyn Dufresne
Pencil and Colored Pencil
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Catie Crnkovich
On Childhood
H
ow you long
to be out
How you long to be loved!
’Neath the moon—
How you long to do work
But the moon will come ’round
And these things are here now
Every month
Before you
How you long to climb high
All things in their time
To the hills—
A time for each thing
But the hills will be there
This, this—all is good,
Years to come
All is blessed
How you long to dance free
All is good—even time
With your feet in a stream--
Even waiting, my child
But the music will come
And the waiting is called
When He calls
Blessed Childhood
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Betsy Peloquin
Drifting Through Time
W
aves beat the
shores of perpetuity,
And Time ever flows on, in constant motion.
To chase the Present is futility
Before it sweeps into the vast, blue ocean.
For Time is ever going out in Past
Or else looking to what lies ahead.
We look forward through fog from our high mast
While dragging behind our anchors of lead.
And what we see we find very fright’ning.
Madness and War chase ’round in perfect form.
The Future is the next strike of light’ning.
There is no rest from the torrential storm.
Yet storms come to an end by break of day;
So we hold out hope for a better way.
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Renee Marie Philomena Therese Kray
First Love
S
he first saw
him as she walked into a cafe on Second Street. The wind was blow-
ing the leaves around in circles outside, and it seemed to push her right through
the door. Later she would wonder if it had really been the wind, or if it had been the
hand of fate.
A peppy French tune was playing over the radio, filling the building as thor-
oughly as did the scent of roasted coffee that emanated from behind the counter. She took her pale blue scarf from her head, revealing her tousled hair as she eyed the
patrons in the shop. Her gaze turned to the workers behind the counter.
That’s when she saw him.
The beautiful French words suddenly faded into the background as she
breathlessly watched him. She felt as if she were in a dream, or perhaps a wonderful
movie. He was tall and thin, barely twenty, with sandy brown hair and hazel eyes.
Stubble adorned his chin, framing a perfect smile made up of uniform white teeth.
She went towards him, drawn helplessly. Her heart started pounding and
her hands began to shake as she took her place at the end of the line, never removing
her eyes from his face. What should she say to him? How should she say it? After all,
she had been dreaming of this moment for so long. It had to be perfect. He was the
one.
She didn’t need to see any pieces of documentation or ask for a test. She
somehow already knew that it was him, the son from an unforeseen pregnancy, the
baby that she had given up when she was only seventeen.
The background song changed into one sung by a woman. The vocals were
gentle and loving, thoroughly illustrating the sentiments that she felt rising up in her
heart. He looked exactly the way that she had imagined him to be: perfect. A miracle.
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Her miracle.
The line moved forward, towards the counter, and she moved with it. Clos-
er to him. She felt her heart pound even harder as she looked at him and imagined
being able to hug him; to tell him that she was his mother and that she had been looking for him almost since the very day that she’d given him up. She’d never guessed
that the long awaited moment would happen here, at a coffee shop in an outdoor
mall. She hadn’t even planned on doing any shopping while on this business trip, in a
strange town and state. Why had she stopped here on her way home from the meeting? Was this moment predestined? She looked back up at him as he ran a credit card
through the machine, handed it back to a man, and then gave the appropriate-sized
cup to the girl who was making the coffees.
She saw a name tag pinned to his shirt, above his heart, and her own heart
leapt. “Brian,” a fairly common name, true, but it was one that had special significance to her. She remembered hearing it from the adoption agent who had let her
know that her son had been placed in a home. She couldn’t be told where he was for
privacy purposes—her parents had insisted on a closed adoption—but her tears had
prompted the agent to tell her that much. Brian. Her son’s name was Brian. The dark
letters engraved into the tiny piece of gold plastic seemed to beckon to her, screaming that she had all the proof she could ever need. It was really him, her son, her first
love.
She suddenly burned with the desire to know more about him. What hob-
bies did he enjoy? Was he in school? Belong to any sports groups? Have a girlfriend?
She pictured taking him out to dinner and getting caught up on everything that she
had missed in his life. Would she be able to see him get married? Welcome grandchildren into the world?
He smiled and thanked a customer who was standing only a few feet in
front of her. She noticed how happy he looked, and she suddenly felt a pang of
doubt. Why hadn’t he ever tried to find her? Maybe he didn’t want to know that he
had a different mother, another family than the one that had raised him.
But why wouldn’t he want to know? She had been searching for him so
diligently, and this was at long last the end of her journey. Didn’t she have a right to
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reveal herself to him, to claim what was her own?
Or had she lost her right on that snowy day twenty years ago, when she had
brought him into the world in a dingy hospital room and then signed him away at the
pressuring of her parents?
She was at the counter now. He smiled down at her, and she felt her breath
stop coming. His voice, smooth and soothing, asked her how she was today and how
he could help her.
You could come home with your mother! her heart screamed silently. She lost track
of time for a moment as she looked up into his eyes.
The eyes of her son. Her baby. Her emotions welled up inside of her, each
one fighting to be the one that would control her voice. She opened her mouth.
Whose happiness was more important?
“One tall coffee with cream, please,” she said, handing him her credit card.
She watched his fingers grip the edges of the card, sliding it through the cash register. She flashed back to that night when she’d first seen him, so tiny and red and
wrinkled. His hands had been so small then. Now they were bigger than hers.
“Have a nice day,” he smiled, holding her card back out.
She looked up at him for a moment, expecting herself to falter. To change
her mind. To point out to him how much they looked alike, and ask him if he had
been adopted by any chance.
But she couldn’t.
“Thanks,” she replied. Reaching out towards him, she took her card back
and stepped away.
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Catherine Glaser
Summer Showers
I
’m fifty feet tall!
(though, my Mum calls me small)
and I’m green as the grass in the spring.
Some birds are up there,
perched up high in my hair,
and I love when they frolic and sing.
But such is my life,
that, not once, twice, nor thrice,
but more frequently—once every hour—
I’m soaked to the core!
Yes, it’s such a great bore
to be constantly taking a show’r.
First, cold down my spine
comes a drip like a vine
and it freezes all singing and fun.
Then Mum’s face turns gray,
and the kids end their play,
as their mothers shout, “Come in now! Run!”
When my Mama calls,
like some thundering squalls,
I shiver with anticipation,
for, well I know, soon
—and she swears it’s a boon!—
she’ll drench me with precipitation.
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If I could uproot
I’d most certainly boot
to some place far away that would let
me stay ever dry.
Ah! what joy could I cry,
if I weren’t so uncomfortably wet.
The Awakening of Spring
Abigail Starcher
Ink Pen
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Jacob Cornwell
Ode to Silence
O
I
, Silence! Bookends of our slender volumes.
From Silence we came,
To Silence we aim.
All Silence is our mother’s womb,
All Silence is our final tomb.
Speak, Silence—why is’t men despise
What they well know must e’er survive?
Behold, before the world began,
All Silence;
And lo, when this sweet course of life be ran,
All Silence.
But soft! With my adult’rous pen,
I do this blessed stillness rend.
II
Here do I sit in silence, waiting, list’ning—
List’ning? Fie, i’faith, wherefore speak of list’ning?
For Silence speaketh not, so naught there is to hear.
But hark, thou reader! Canst thou not the music hear?
’Tis faint upon the wind, but can be heard;
Those are the drums that tap upon your soul,
These drums, the heartbeat of th’ Almighty One;
Next be the bass, a low and joining, steady sound
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Created by the very rocks themselves;
Next the birds and the beasts—the strings and horns,
And fish, the pipes; together, all one melody.
This is the symphony of life: be still and listen.
It is this blessed sound that man doth hear,
That man doth hear and augment with his life.
God bringeth rhythm, Nature bringeth melody,
Man bringeth harmony, the end of all creation.
But hark, ’tis only now, in blessèd silence,
When one who listens hears this heav’nly music.
III
Yea, is not that the place where children,
Laughing, hit the ball and call it sport?
Is not that the place? Aye, so it is.
And look, is that not the field where crack
The ball is hit and whoosh
It soareth through the air ’til smack
It landeth in another’s glove?
Is that not the field? Aye, so it is.
And are those not the stands where
Mothers, fathers, stand and shout
And cheer their children, “Swing!” and “Run!”
Are those not the stands? Aye, so they are.
And there, are those not the towers, ladders, swings
Where children in their glee doth
Skip and run and chase each other’s tails,
As dogs find joy in themselves?
Are those not the towers? Aye, so they are.
Look, are those not the slides where children,
And all whose hearts are young,
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Doth sit and slide to shouts of giddy joy?
Are those not the slides? Aye, so they are.
And this, is this not the air which
Bellows, shouts, and “hallos” sound throughout,
The very sounds of love?
Is this not the air? Aye, so it is.
Bear witness to me, O thou blessed moon,
And hear creation’s cry!
Hark, there the killdeer cries; and there.
O, cry again, that I may hear your joyous song!
Behold, the fireflies are out;
They light the air below
As doth their brothers
In the air above;
Behold, they sing as well.
Yes, they sing, though not with fleshy organs.
Listen!
O, blessed be the Creator!
Blessed be his glorious name:
God, Lord, Almighty.
Thou, truly, art a God of Silence.
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Cristina Carvajal
(For This I Am) Lost
I
know too
well why I’m set adrift
In a steep ground, where my feet must sink,
Pulled from under me by a weight that softens—
I love too deep.
For this—pure bliss—I am lost at sea.
But I rest in the peace of what will be;
This I've chosen: to mirror thunder, to strike at will
And leave great fires to their plunder. I’d rather give
(Give all, give in) than tear asunder.
As long as the world sings to spring in summer
And there are stars to guide sweet dreams.
All is well with me, though the world might wonder
Why I feel such peace when I’m lost at sea.
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Idyllic Shade Tree
Daniel Dikman
Graphite
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Nathan Pacer
Imagination Tree
A
tree stood
in the midst of my childhood and pervaded my early adoles-
cence, but did not exist much past this. The early adventures of my life
centered around this tree; it served as a place to bury one’s head, count down from
twenty before hunting down fugitive playmates; it served as the foundation of a
tree fort; and it served as a backing to rest against and read The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. All in all, it partook and observed all the imaginings of a small boy in an
infinitely expansive world.
During one winter of my early college years, the tree of my childhood
died. Like Domrémy’s tree, it was not something natural that brought it down, but
sharpened steel secured on the end of a late arbor who met a similar fate that my
childhood tree now faced. And unlike the children of Domrémy, I refrained from
uttering any protestations at the felling of the tree; the tree was dying, my father
asked me to take it down, and so it was done.
How could I cut this tree down so coolly, some might ask, and the answer
is quite simple: my imagination and childhood are not tied to the tree. Yes, the task
in front of me saddened me, but not everything is made to last forever. Moreover,
the tree had one more part to play.
I dragged the back of the ax head on the ground as I approached the tree,
snowflakes sweeping past my reddened face. I did not approach the tree under my
Christian name, but as Torhild War-Bringer. No longer did I sport a crew cut; instead two long braids of blonde hair rested on my shoulders. Nor did I approach a
dying tree, but Bard, a once beloved elder of my clan, bent over on his knees, blood
slowly dripping from a gash above his brow.
“Gundrun,” I bellowed in an ancient brogue, “answer for yourself!”
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No response was made, but the howl of the cold northern wind.
“You’ve betrayed your own people, your own blood for what? Endless
flowing mead, and a hall of your own, built upon the corpses of your old friends?
You cared for me when I was young, and I looked up to you. When I would play
fight with the other boys I would say I was you. Oh how I relished in relating your
feats in war, and embellishing them too: you did not just kill five men at Kiev, but
five and twenty—the last five with your bare hands. You had all the affection and
admiration any old war-hardened clansmen could ever desire, and not only did I
esteem you highly, but everyone that knew you. Why? Why do you now lay before
me? Why did you bring me to lighten your worn body of a conniving head?”
I then attempted to lift his chin with the edge of my axe, but he preferred
that the blade should sink into his leathery skin than look me in the eyes. I withdrew the blood-stained axe from his chin, and then prepared to deliver the death
blow. “No mercy is owed you, but I pray to Odin that I decapitate you with one
blow. Not because I desire your death to be quicker, but because it is more desirable that bloodcurdling cries should remain suppressed in your lungs than ringing
in my ears.”
I lifted the heavy ax above my head, pausing only briefly to steady my aim,
before swinging the ax downward.
Chop! Wood chips flew into the air. One stroke would not be enough to
take down the tree, but at least I did not have to hear it scream. After all, it was just
a tree, not Gudrun. Imagination was not contained in the tree, but within me.
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Catherine Glaser
A Pale Yellow Circle
I
was walking this morning when something strange caught my eye. What was that,
just above the brim of the horizon? Someone must have left it there, I mused, last
night, after a long St. Joseph’s Day celebration.
Or maybe this morning, waking up early to go for a run, someone dropped it out of
his pocket, or else forgot he had it in his hand. Did it roll a long way before stopping
there, I wonder?
Does it bounce? Could I fit it under my bed? If I could just reach it…
Behind the misty field, creeping up above the shrouded trees, it stopped being so
matte. Suddenly, it stopped being something someone dropped or left behind. Still
strange, it began to shine.
“Oh, you!” In an instant I recognized it. “I’ve seen you before, haven’t I? Yesterday,
or the day before…?” Maybe both, who knows.
“Yes, you’re familiar to me in this way; this untouchable, un-look-at-able way. But
how strangely you surprised me!”
As I walk past the trees, past the field, up to the wall that will hide it from me, I can’t
help myself: “Do you bounce?” I shyly ask. “Could you fit under my bed? Who left
you there? Did you have to roll a long way before stopping here, just above the brim
of my horizon?”
And, smiling, I look away:
“Did you fall out of His pocket? Did He forget He had you in His hand?”
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Transparency
Carolyn Dufresne | Watercolor
Contraries
Stained
Paulina Pecic
Ink, Charcoal, and Watercolor
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Carl Bishop
The Black Paintings:
Saturn Devouring His Son
W
elcome to the
abode,” John boomed.
Mark found John in his usual state: The will-o’-wisp floating in the centre
of the room. His naked form perched on a mountain top of rug and fur. His feet
rummaging endlessly in a shag pile beneath his toes. His right and left hands fingering the invisible strings of a most exquisite instrument, while a large vein protruded
from his abdomen and bulged in syncopation with his silent symphony; throbbing, it
traced upwards past his thorax, found his neck and disappeared into his gaunt face,
which surveyed his gaudy kingdom.
“Look at me, Mark!” John teased. “It’s only natural.”
The room was also in its usual state—John’s “arena of divine sensation,” a
space so powerful that it seemed only John could tolerate it. For Mark it was sensory
overload, and as a result he would be left nursing a migraine weeks after the ordeal.
The window shades were a decadent velvet and always drawn. The walls
were violent, splattered with paint. And beneath him the ground was layered with
thick rug and fur. It was here that Mark focused most of his attention, in an attempt
to flee from both the overbearing claustrophobia of this radiant cage and John’s naked body. Here at least he found a comrade—a sensitive ally to soften the aggression
that rose above him.
“I thought you preferred the unnatural,” Mark murmured, while keeping
eye contact with the floor.
“Have you not heard? Natural is the new unnatural. The paradigm has
shifted,” John returned and then waited for a reaction; his friend remained still. “We
have known each other our whole lives. You know I work on a principle of full25
Contraries
disclosure with all my friends.”
“Some things are best left to the imagination.”
“Ahh, you’re quite right. I am robbing you of your fantasy and I know how
painful that can be.” John sat back and exhaled a heavy breath from his chest. He
took his time, patiently expelling the heavy weight of his reality, slowly loosening the
constricting grip it took around his lungs. Momentarily freed from his burden he let
his head hang and stared at the floor, with eyes darting fretfully to and fro.
Mark and John sat still; Mark punctuating the calm with a grimace every
now and then, as his migraine worked its way across his brow.
“You’re suffering Mark. More than I am. You shouldn’t fight it. Embrace
your environment and accept the disorder. You’re struggling against the struggle and
that only brings more torture. Embrace the disharmony of the room. Accept it as
a part of life and the feeling becomes quite pleasant. I equate my headache with a
perpetual state of euphoria. Become one with it.”
“Your preaching is tedious,” Mark groaned as he closed his eyes.
“But not as tedious as the migraines you suffer with. And as such you
continue to endure my lectures. When you finally embrace your pain, then will my
lectures be your only tedium and you will no longer accept them, and you will finally
command me to shut up or just stop visiting altogether…But by then I will no longer
need to lecture you.”
“I still don’t understand why you don’t just make the walls whatever colour
you want,” Mark exclaimed, gesturing at the walls while keeping them as far out of
his sight as possible. “Instead of going through the labour of heaving those paint
buckets everywhere. It’s irregular.”
“It’s irregular and original,” John sighed. “I bet you dream in black and
white.”
“I do. Like the rest of the world.”
“Don’t you remember dreaming in colour?”
“I do.”
“Does it not bother you?”
“No. Why should it?”
“I doubt the rest of the world dreams at all.”
26
Spring 2015
John moved towards his window and raised the shade. His view was the
best, here on the top floor of Habitation 1, Row 1, City 1, and yet the dust filled his
lungs as he raised the curtain.
After clearing the debris from his throat, John spoke. “Look at my mas-
terpiece, the crowning achievement of mankind: the Great Hall. Looming over everything, not just City 1 but 1 through 50. Dull and empty, a testament to man’s
complete and utter lack of invention.”
“You’re the creator. Why not do something about it? Change the plans.”
The heavy weight had returned to John’s chest. He stepped away from the window
and took a moment to expel it.
“I have no power. I’m just a factory. They tell me what they want, and I give
it to them, for the good of the people. I am not a sociologist, or a psychologist, or a
politician. I am uneducated. Science, imagination—both those things are dead. And
now that the Great Hall is finished, the final piece is in place and I have built them
their Utopia…the last proponent of the art is being put out of commission. There
is no need for me anymore.” John stared blankly into his creation—his prison—and
drew the shades.
“They are going to take away my room, Mark. They want me to become
one with the body. Tolerated while I was useful; but I can’t live the way you do, in the
grey…I trusted that they knew what was best for us. And besides I had this room
to amuse myself in, to distract myself. But now that I’m facing assimilation, I feel
like we were never meant to live like this—autonomy—sprawling cities of identical
units—grey monoliths…I offer you a rainbow, and you ask me if it comes in grey.”
Mark shifted uncomfortably in his sensible shoes. Identifying with the autonomous,
he found himself under siege, and prodded desperately for safer footing. John continued, “We had the power to be anything. And this is what we chose. What does that
say about us?”
“That we are survivors.”
“Survivors! We are already dead. We have reached equilibrium and equilib-
rium is death. We are a benign tumour just replicating. Entropy sustains life. Disorder, Mark! Those splatters on my wall. They sustain me. The universe wants disorder.
27
Contraries
What I have created in this room is only what the universe has asked of me—it’s
natural…But my time is up. I’ve been told to grey-wash everything; what I am doing
here is no longer how our world works. I told you, the paradigm has shifted, natural
is the new unnatural.”
***
Mark raised the heavy blackout shade which blocked the perpetual sunlight
from his habitation and looked out into the avenue. He smiled at the new addition to
the street. It was only a matter of time before Row 32 possessed its own oddity. They
had been popping up all over the grid at a steady rate for the past month.
Row 32, like every other Row 1 to 100, consisted of 50 habitations, each ca-
pable of sustaining 50,000 inhabitants; each habitation was a large, uniform, slab-like
grey high-rise. That was until recently—Row 32’s newly birthed oddity stood proud;
its brilliant blue facade shining bright betwixt its grey brethren, burning the retinas
of all who dared to gaze upon its brilliance.
Mark sighed at the congestion down below. A large crowd was amassing
outside of the building, blocking the subway. It had been almost a month since he
had visited John. The escalating environment was forcing his hand: today he would
go and see his friend, if anything, out of curiosity more than concern.
Mark surveyed the crowd once more as he headed for the subway. There
were two types of response to these oddities: feigned ignorance, head down, shuffle
on past, go on with your day; or complete and total devastating rapture. Colour,
having been all but extinguished in this monochromatic society, entranced those susceptible to its lustre. It sent them into a frenzy, and since they were unable to process
this new truth, violence inevitably ensued.
Mark stepped onto the escalator that led down to the subway; his foot
sank as the slurry beneath his feet gave way. A heavy burst of gushing water erupted
from the gaps in the machinery and sent Mark flushing to the bottom. Bruised and
disoriented he composed himself and turned to look upon this new oddity. He was
old enough to recognise what he saw. There, before him, flowering forth from the
machinery of man, was a waterfall—a natural waterfall—like those you would see in
the old jungles, the green jungles, before the urban jungle dropped its differentiation
and became just jungle.
28
Spring 2015
There was an arduous exhale of gas behind him, like the slow release of air
from a balloon. Ready for some new curiosity, Mark swung around to find something
far more brilliant than he could have imagined. Three small children were trying in
vain to suppress their amusement at his ineloquent descent. He allowed them their
guffaws, and after navigating the initial alienation brought on by the merry contortion of their faces, basked in their mirth. Alongside the children was a mattress—
soggy, muddy and torn. They had been using it to ride the waterfall. Such a potent
concoction of genuine joy accompanied by original thinking almost terrified Mark;
he had assumed John was the last purveyor of this art, and yet, here it was, blooming
in youth.
***
John’s door was ajar and Mark let himself in. There was no familiar greet-
ing: John was standing with his nose pressed up against one of the walls, clothed and
with eyes uncomfortably wide. He was completely oblivious to Mark’s arrival. The
room had been redecorated, in a way. John had complied with his instructions. The
room was now like any other, like Mark’s, grey from floor to ceiling.
“John?” Mark queried.
There was no response. Mark squelched up to his friend and grasped his
shoulder. John swivelled around and pressed his nose up against the intruder’s. John’s
wide lustrous eyes stared back into his friend’s, searching for something. His fist was
clenched down by his side.
“Who are you and why are you in my room?” John spat into Mark’s face.
“John, it’s Mark, your friend.”
John breathed heavily, sucking the oxygen from Mark’s lungs.
“Oh Mark, Mark, yes. I knew a Mark once. So long ago. Almost four weeks,
that’s forever and a day to a man like me. You must understand, if I do not forget
some old things, I will have no new things to forget. I have to make room up here for
my imaginations; facts and figures are useless now, always were.” John’s hand relaxed
by his side and begin to finger his imaginary instrument. A smile broke across his
face and he leaned into Mark, their foreheads clashing. “I remember you. Mark…
How could I forget my best friend. Who does not visit me for a month, in my most
dire hour of need. I was merely making a joke at your expense. Now stand back,
29
Contraries
you’re in my bubble.”
Mark hesitated as he took his step back. He searched John’s face, which
appeared to have returned to normal. Was it just a charade? The clenched fist, the
absence of mind? Or was John just covering up some loss of faculties?
“So do you like what I’ve done with the place? It’s my grey period…And
why are you wet and traipsing mud onto my beautiful grey flooring? Do you know
how exclusive that shade of boring is? It can’t be raining, I finished that off a long
time ago.”
“Well it’s…”
“Stop! Don’t tell me. I can imagine.” John chuckled at his own quip. “What
havoc am I playing out there? I wish I could see.”
Mark stood in silence waiting for John to continue.
“Oh, sorry boy. I actually want you to tell me. You have my permission to
speak.”
“Waterfall escalators, vulgar buildings, red lampposts, yellow bananas,
there’s even rumours of cats and dogs, no one sees them, just hears the echoes of
their calls. I saw some children today, they were smiling, actually smiling. They had
fashioned a raft out of a mattress and were sailing down towards the R32 subway.”
“Fantastic!”
“For the children. But it’s the adults that are the problem. They can’t handle
it. Unable to process these strange new feelings, they get angry. It builds up inside
them and they explode. Things are becoming violent. It’s not safe with these zealots
around.”
“I know. They have been to see me. Told me of the extremists. What we
have become is not equipped for wonder, I suppose. I’ve told them it’s this room,
but they don't understand. They think I can just switch it off. They thought reducing my stimulation, the barren nature of my environment would contain me. But it
has almost set me free. All those colours, all those feelings, they satiated my appetite.
Distracted me. But now, in this empty room...These four walls are a blank canvas. To
dissolve this utter boredom, my imagination moves into overdrive, it consumes me, I
can project onto these four walls images more vivid than a dream. You told me that
we are survivors—well, this is my survival instinct. It’s out of my control.”
30
Spring 2015
“But it’s dangerous, John. The children may be happy, but when they are
caught underneath the trample of the ravenous mob, happiness will not save them.”
“I know. Should one be happy while another dies? Or should happiness be
abolished, should everyone be made content so that both can live? What do I do,
Mark? Put myself to sleep? Will myself into a coma, just so humanity can continue
in its stupor? Do I save us from our own brilliance?”
“Go to sleep, John. We can’t be saved. We are a different species to what
we were when we were kids. We don't have the capacity to understand what you are
trying to give to us. We will only implode.”
***
Mark awoke to a thunderous rumble emanating from the streets outside.
He looked at the clock: 9 am. Even in the busiest hours noise never got so loud that
he could hear it in his room. In general, people didn’t talk to each other. Even with
the commotion brought about by the oddities, things stayed relatively tranquil. Unless, perhaps, the zealots had become the majority, and things had turned to anarchy.
John really needed to heed his advice, Mark thought, for the good of the people. He
moved to the shades and raised them. His heart pounded and he blinked his eyes
incessantly, as if he had been struck with a sudden blindness and a quick fluttering
of the lashes would shake his malady away. Mark had not gone blind, he came to
realise, but it was dark outside. There hadn’t been nightfall for years. It wasn’t needed
any more. Not efficient. And yet, there it was—in full—the moon. He looked down
into the street below and met thousands of faces upturned, staring into the sky. The
moon’s glow was reflected in the whites of their eyes and like a violent river, thousands of these terrified tiny white orbs crashed and ebbed against each other. They
were lost, mouths agape, howling at the moon. Moaning, crying, gasping the most
animal of sounds.
It dawned on Mark that John had taken his advice. He had gone to sleep
and turned out the light.
31
Contraries
Paulina Pecic
Weeks Go By
W
eeks go by
fast.
Days
go
by
slowly.
It’s
too
easy
to be lazy
32
Spring 2015
Peter Atkinson
Alma Amans
I
leave you
now—though you remain in me,
A lover who once kissed my blushing face,
A god whom I shall find in every place,
Though you yourself should fade from memory.
Such love does not a second time repeat.
Her home new-found burns bright with searing grace,
And, burning high, is lost in mid-embrace.
Yet lovers can but once as strangers meet.
Your ivy walls and painted face have seen
Too many days well-spent in youthful haste.
But still you offered wisdom, sweet to taste,
A weary hope, which yet has made men free.
I’ll not return—though you were long my home;
I can’t because your wisdom’s not your own.
33
Contraries
Marian
Teresa Beasley
Acrylic on Canvas
34
Spring 2015
Allie Dawson
Enthralled
O
n that dull
morning long ago, the girl wandered through the market, a song
on her lips, and her mind filled with the airy nothings of a young girl’s day-
dreams. She let her hands idle over blankets, trinkets, vegetables, fruits. Her mother
haggled over prices; her sister plopped down at her feet and made fairy houses with
the pebbles.
Her hand wandered over the fruit as she daydreamed over the sky. A spot
of black caught her eye. There! Resting atop the stall—a big and beautiful blackbird.
She stepped closer. It lowered its beak, and she caught its glowing yellow eyes.
It fluttered down, resting on a misshapen squash, and she could not help
but reach out and touch it. How large it was! The form of it she found as ugly as any
blackbird. But its feathers—black as ink—as soon it moved the slightest, betrayed
glimmers of color, of silver and cold green and rich purple. And its eyes—ravens
didn’t have yellow eyes! She stared, deep and long into those yellow eyes, wells of
amber and of gold. She stared, stared till she saw nothing but the liquid gold of his
eyes. Then she heard his voice for the first time. Cold and clear, like the clanging of
a bell it resonated in her mind, in her soul, it seemed: and, though without words, his
meaning was perfectly clear.
Her one hand dropped at her side. Song dying on her lips, eyes fixed on his
the wonder of his eyes, her other hand reached for a red and ripened pomegranate
and absently slipped into her jacket.
Her sister tugged on her sleeve, babbling on and on. Shrugging off the
child’s entreaties, her eyes followed the blackbird as it flew away into the distance.
***
A hideous squawking pierced the night. The girl sat up, aroused from a
35
Contraries
dead sleep. At the window—why was he here? But there he was, the night sky dull
in comparison to his shimmering black coat. Just as she was about to roll over and
pull her blankets over her head, he flew in, landing on her bedpost. His eyes had
never looked so beautiful. Slowly, she swung her legs over, one after the other, and
sat up. With his beak, he took her jacket and wrapped it round her shoulders. The
pomegranate slipped from her pocket into her hand. Without a word, she followed
him out the window.
Her sister peeked out over the edge of her little trundle bed. As soon as she
thought it safe, the girl rose up and crawled out the window.
***
Tears stung the girl’s eyes as she pulled the white flowers out of a thicket
of brambles. Cuts, scratches and trickles of blood crisscrossed her arms. But, if this
was what he wanted of her, then so be it.
Gathering it all up in her arms, the thorns and the flowers, she threw them
on the open patch of dry grass. He rested on the ground, motionless. Then, locking
his eyes on hers, he jerked his head to the side.
The pomegranate! Dropping to her knees, she moved to add it to the pile.
But, hesitating, she looked back at him. Then, digging her fingers in the center, she
pried open the fruit. The red juice ran down her fingers and stung the little cuts on
her hands. The seeds burst forth from the inside, oozing and dropping onto the rest
of the debris. She scooped out the center. Her fingers were stained a brilliant red.
Gliding to her shoulder, he tugged her shirt. Raising her to a standing posi-
tion, he then drew her backwards. The dull sky rumbled and trembled. What ordinarily frightened now barely aroused her interest.
Until a flashing bolt struck the pile mere steps from her feet. She jumped
back, eyes wide with silent awe. The pile erupted in flames, but no flames she’d ever
seen. Rather than warm and orange and comforting, these spread with a sickly green
hue, an acrid smell that itched her nose, languid and putrid, with a black and dense
smoke that billowed up to unparalleled heights. She clutched her thin shirt and
quaked like a dry leaf in the winds.
A voice released her from her stupor. Her little sister? Followed by her
mother…followed by a small crowd of grown-ups, looking both fierce and affright36
Spring 2015
ed. Her sister ran to her and clung to her knees. Her mother gripped her shoulders,
before leading her calmly away through the rushing crowd. The crowd stomped
upon and smothered her fire with a terrified haste, scattering the ashes to the four
winds.
When she awoke the next morning, she found her breakfast resting on the
chair and the door locked fast. Her sister was nowhere in sight.
***
In the corner she found the darkness she so craved. Why could she only
find it at night? She drew her knees close to her chest. Were those her hands, her pale
and skinny things? It looked like skin stretched over dry bones. The warm tears that
sprang to her eyes she let drip down her face, wincing as they bathed the cuts still
crisscrossing her arms.
His voice, large and clear, was like the solitary clanging of the Angelus bell.
But how could she leave now? They’d see her for sure. But still he called, and called,
till she thought his voice would rip her apart. And she almost wished it would.
The door creaked. She looked quickly. Her sister—was it her sister? Who-
ever she was, she was a beautiful sprite, clad wholly in white.
The little sprite crept closer to the girl. Though the girl knew she was to be
trusted, she drew back, curling up into herself.
The little sprite stood two steps away. She reached out a little hand; the
girl shook her head violently, crying and shaking, though it hardly made sense: she
wanted to take the little girl and bury her in her arms, while he told her to stay away
from that creature as much as she could.
Her head spun; or was it the room that spun? Perhaps it was both. The
walls pulsed, the floor throbbed; the girl tore her fingers through her hair. The little
sprite wrapped her arms around the girl.
The girl tore away as if she’d been burned, then seized the little sprite and
threw her against the wall.
Thud.
A deathlike silence settled upon the room. Beads of sweat streamed down
the girl’s forehead. The child said nothing, just sat numbly against the wall she stuck,
looking at the girl with the widest, clearest blue eyes.
37
Contraries
The girl tore her eyes way. She dropped to her knees. Where was he?
The little sprite hadn’t moved, only sat there, staring at the girl with a be-
mused sort of innocence.
Her heart contracted with each look, till she thought it would break if she
looked back again. Springing to her feet, she began fumbling with the window pane.
Nothing. She grasped the handle, pulled and pulled till it rattled like a case full of
bones. Locked!
As she rested her forehead against the window, a little hand stretched up
between her arms, holding something small and golden. After a short tussle with
the lock, the windows swung wide open. Not daring to take a second look, the girl
climbed over the sill and dropped to the ground.
The little sprite stepped away, trembling, before casting a long, lingering
look over the wood. She turned to leave; but, something caught her eyes, something
large and black, with horrible yellow eyes. Quickly, she eased herself over the sill and
dropped onto the ground below.
***
The girl ran blindly into the wood, not caring where she was going or who
she found. How could she have done that? Why would he make her do that? And yet,
how could she betray him?
Her vision swam, whether from tears or the world had really congealed into
an amorphous mass, she couldn’t tell. She only had to make it to the heart of the
wood—there would no one find her. There would she harm none.
Splash! The cold water took her breath away. She took stock of her sur-
roundings. A cold, crystal pool surrounded her on all sides. Protruding out the water
were towering trees, trees that broke the sky, ancient and and, yet, to her, utterly new.
Vines hung all around, some dainty and neat, others hairy and wild. A strange, sharp
smell hung in the air.
The air became deathly still: then, a deafening flapping sound burst through
the wood, making the trees sway and shake as if in a storm. A black shape flew across
the sky. It settled on a branch, blocking out the sun with its massive wings. The girl
quaked, miniscule and alone, arms held tight to her chest.
Those eyes! Those yellow wells of gold!
38
Spring 2015
She dropped to her knees, waist-deep in the frigid water. If he wanted her
to die, she would do it in a heartbeat.
He lowered his head, coolly appraising her, detached, it seemed, and utterly
indifferent. She wavered, drawing back. What was he doing with her?
She had not time to think. Before she knew he had moved, he seized with
his talons—for talons they now were—and hurled her against a tree. Silver stars
danced around her eyes. He seized her waist and flung her across the water; water
filled her lungs, her nose, and she gasped, choked, panted for breath. he seized her,
spun her into a tree; she clung desperately to a clutch of vines, but all she won for
her efforts was a pleasing, crisp scent filling her nose.
As she clambered her hands up the bark, stumbling for a hold, he stopped,
then landed on a facing log. His eyes had cooled to dull amber.
The cold bells clanged in her mind, her soul. She had failed. Failed him.
Only one thing now remained.
As she bowed her head, a soft splashing caught her ear. She lifted her eyes,
and saw a spot of glowing white.
The little sprite!
There, at the edge of the pool, she stood. The blue eyes were set. In her
little hand she brandished a knife.
The creature gazed steadily into the child’s eyes. It looked back to the girl
and seemed almost to smile. The girl’s heart chilled over.
The sprite held the knife up to his beak. He lowered his head, spread his
wings, and, slowly, opened his beak over the head of the little girl.
The girl flung herself onto his neck. She dug her fingers under its feathers,
scratched the skin, tore out the feathers till it unleashed a hellish scream. It flailed and
flapped about, snapping at her with its beak. To no avail: she held fast with a grip of
iron.
It began to fly upwards, the flapping of its wings creating a vortex: the girl’s
clammy hands slipped and she fell back in the water.
Now the creature loomed above, monstrous and massive. How could she
ever have thought it beautiful? Its sooty feathers stuck out every which way round
patches of blood; the yellow eyes were those of a ravenous monster.
39
Contraries
Helpless though she was, she stood her ground in front of the little sprite.
It lowered its eyes once more. She closed her eyes, and prayed.
Something cold and solid slipped into her palm. As her fingers closed over
it, the creature reared itself up to its full height. As it came down for the kill, the girl
raised her arm and plunged the knife into its eye.
It fell back, tottered, leaned, reeled. Blood spilled out of its eye. It moaned,
a horrible moan, the most miserable moan the girl had yet heard, a moan she hoped
never to hear again.
Thud.
It fell into the water like a felled tree.
The girl stared numbly at the blood-stained water that swallowed up the
blackened behemoth.
A little hand slipped into hers. Her sister looked up with pleading eyes. The
girl smiled, swinging her up upon her hip.
Then, as if in a trance, they slowly waded back through the water to the
treeline.
***
Barefoot, exhausted, she wandered through the market, her sister on her
hip. How had she ever thought it dull? A smile played about her lips as she let the
morning sun bathe her skin and the cool breeze toss her disheveled hair.
Had she ever seen such a sky? So blue, so clear as if created anew, just for
her. The leaves—such a vivid green. She laughed, forgetting a time before this when
she felt so light, so free—she could step off this earth, and touch the sky.
“Look!” her sister wrenched to the side, almost tumbling out of her grasp.
“Look!” Resting on a stall ladened with ripe pomegranates and apples was something
of the purest white. The girl squinted.
“A dove?”
The little girl nodded.
“Well, best to leave it be.” she smiled ruefully. “After all, wild birds are dan-
gerous things.”
40
Spring 2015
Tony Powers
Lost
T
he road is
lost, the way is gone.
How shall I ever press on?
The woods are thick, the leaves are silk,
and all that I see is red as brick.
I’ve lost the road, but I must get home.
I see a man off to my left,
and he calls to me, “Come to my chest.
My house is large, the way is smooth,
and on your way, mountains will move.”
“Not so, not so!” comes a cry from my right.
I look and I see a man dressed in white.
“The house is large, yes, and easy the path,
but life’s goal is not quite as simple as that.
My way is hard, my life is pain,
but all someday shall shout my name.
Though mocked and scorned, they sing my praise.
My way is long, but I will be with you. Come,
follow those who seek the truth.”
I stood a while, trying to decide
between two men, between their sides.
I looked to my left and there I saw
a great gold mansion that filled me with awe.
I stepped that way, but turned to see
what the man in white could ever offer me.
41
Contraries
As I looked, I saw nothing, no riches—
until his eyes met mine, so full of kindness.
He may not have much, that may be true,
but he offers me more than I ever could use.
He draws me in with one small breath,
I go to him, though with fear in my chest.
He meets me halfway, puts his arm around me,
then points my head forward, to the trees surrounding.
The trail appears before the man in white,
and he says, “Come, for my burden is light.”
42
Spring 2015
Emily Rose Reed
The Vending Machine
An Excerpt From “The Haggard Witch”
W
alking down the
hall, I realize that my legs seem heavier than I am capable
of managing. Instead of exerting any energy towards the pointless struggle
of walking like a normal human being, I just let my feet slide in front of me, one after
the other, and like so, I scoot down the hall.
That vending machine feels miles away when in all reality it is about six
yards distant. Trudging into the laundry room where the glorious and brilliantly
red, cold, delicious vending machine is located, I cover my ears at the buzz of the
machines. The swish-swishing of the washers and the ever-so-soft yet ever-so-loud
bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzshhhhhhhhhhhh of the dryers is just too much for my
overworked brain.
Finally, after what seems like days, I reach the machine, pull the quarters out
of my sweatshirt pocket, and stick them in one by one. I listen to the satisfying clink
as each coin registers in the machine. The fifth and last coin is dismissed, however,
and I almost cry as I hear it rolling down into the return bucket at the bottom of that
cold and heartless machine.
I can see—whether it is a hallucination or pure conjecture—the inner
workings of such a malicious robot; the coin entering the elaborate system of pipes
and hopeless dreams, hoping to clink as its brothers did before it, but instead falling down, down, down, into a black abyss that threatens the self-worth of such an
already little-valued coin, and being dismissed back into the world of students and
laundry machines. Only seconds have passed, though it feels like years.
I grab the machine, one hand on each side of it, using what seems like the
last drop in my reservoir of stored sugars, and I bang my head against it.
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“No!” the first word resounds with anger.
“No!” I bang my head again, this time with sounds of fear.
“No…” This final utterance rings with despair, and my hands flop to my
sides.
I turn around and fall against the machine. Then I slide downwards until
my body is a worthless lump, the only thing keeping it upright the machine that so
recently scorned it. I turn around slowly, as I don’t know what fast is anymore, and
retrieve the quarter, sliding it up in the bin and letting it drop into my hand. I sit staring at the quarter for quite some time. Where have you been? Who has held you before? Have
you ever been inside of a vending machine? Are you scared to go back? Or are you Horatius at the
bridge, refusing to leave your post though all of your comrades are safe on the shore of the Tiber?
Pushing myself off the ground and using the nearby table as a prop, I
stand up, determined. I am not Tarquinius Superbus, I am Nero, who withstood the
heat of his burning Rome and built a magnificent palace. Again I stick the quarter in
the small slot and to my utmost joy, I hear the clink of recognition.
For a split second I consider what an awful thing it would be if I broke my “no
carbonation, by-golly-you’re-gonna-get-healthy” rule. I had gone at least three weeks
living on juice, PowerAde, and water. Then I chuckle to myself as I realize there is no
way I have enough willpower to keep my finger from pressing that Coca-Cola button.
And so I press the button. What a wonderful feeling it is to know that with a
flex of my finger, a deliciously cold and beautifully caffeinated Coca-Cola is going to
rush down the chutes as fast as it can and dispense itself into my possession. I feel
god-like. I can’t finish my homework in a decent amount of time, but I can summon
a cold drink with just a few coins I dug out of a forgotten corner of my desk drawer
and a small flex of my finger.
The Coke comes rushing down. I hear it crash and slide and finally roll into
the bin at the bottom. I snatch the bottle and take a swig. The bubbles don’t have
time to settle before they are down my throat. The tingling in my stomach is sensational. I take another swig, and another. The tingling moves down my arms, then my
legs, I feel it boil in my stomach. I can run, I can jump, I can ride an elephant, I can
climb Mount Everest. I can potentially translate 80 more lines of Livy, write a threepage paper, edit a lab report, read and write a reflection on Beowulf, folio-lize As You
44
Spring 2015
Like It, and finish this creative non-fiction writing assignment before my first class at
8:10 in the morning.
I twist the cap back on and return to my room, to the still haggard lump on
the floor. I am tired, but more importantly, I feel refreshed and slightly more powerful. I only hope Coca-ColaTM comes across this piece and offers me $1 million or free
drinks for life.
45
Contraries
Still Life
Lauren Dionne
Oil on Watercolor Paper
46
Spring 2015
Monica David
The Choir Invisible
F
or no reason
concrete enough to describe, Jonas Simpkins decided late one
Friday afternoon to give a party that night. He had little experience in being a
host; sometimes a friend or two came over to his apartment for a drink or a sandwich
after a movie, if there was any food left over from the week. Once he’d invited Minnie Kreutzer and her parents (visiting from Iowa) for tea in the days when he was
going with Minnie, but that experience had occurred only weeks before Minnie had
told him she was now going steady with the man who worked in the bookstore with
her, and so there had been no more occasions for lavish hospitality. But today Jonas
realized with a little thrill of excitement that he was going, at long last, to do something exciting. Day after day he stifled that still small voice within him that demanded
parties and excitement and companionship; well, today it was going to have its fill. A
party of this kind required almost no preparation; just some things to eat and drink,
a word to his friends, and that was that. Why hadn’t he done this before, he asked
himself, and smiled at his past timidity.
As he replaced the file containing the information on the Jennings house in
his drawer, he glanced over at the neighboring desk. Oliver was whistling under his
breath as he gathered up his pencils and stuck them into the chipped mug as if he
were arranging a bouquet of roses. Catching Jonas’s eye, he smiled and winked. “Any
exciting plans for the weekend, Jo my boy?”
Here was an opening indeed! “Well, I was thinking of calling some people
up and having them come to my place for a little informal get-together tonight. Just
beer and pretzels, completely informal. Do you want to come? Tonight, around eight
or so.”
Oliver pushed back his chair and got up. He made it a rule never to push his
47
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chair under his desk on Fridays, as a sign of rebellion and independence and general
dash, although Monday through Thursday he meekly obeyed the rules which enjoined him to clear the aisles between the desks. “I’d love to, old boy, absolutely love
to. Where’s my hat? Aha!” He crushed it jauntily onto the side of his head, draped
his coat over his arm, and gave Jonas an affectionate slap on the shoulder. “Can you
smell the freedom, Jo? Taste it and touch it? God Almighty, glory be for Fridays!”
The door slammed behind him, and Jonas could hear the stenographers giggle at
another of Oliver’s eternal jokes. Where did he get them, Jonas wondered, always a
new one every day.
Gathering his own things, he decided to ask George and Bill on his way out,
but the sight of their empty desks in the next office reminded him that they’d left
already. Resolving to call them, he emerged into the front office. The two stenographers smiled at him with Friday afternoon coyness. A wave of goodwill swept him
from head to foot.
“Any plans this evening, girls?” he enquired.
“That’s none of your business, Mr. Simpkins,” Jessie rejoined. She had by
far the quicker tongue of the two, although Jenny was prettier. Jessie’s permanent
wave was going rather to seed, he noticed.
“I only asked,” he rejoined with mock severity, “because I was going to ask
you both to a party.”
“Good gracious, you’re not giving one, are you?” Jessie asked.
“I certainly am. Tonight at eight, my place. Look the address up in my file,
ladies, and see you later.” He tipped his hat at them and almost winked.
Once in the street, he began to make plans. First call up Bill and George,
then call Ted Morissey and get him to contact Judy and her sisters; and Ellie’s steady
date could come too, he assured Ted over the phone. “And if there’s anybody you
want to bring, you just bring them along,” he added generously.
“Sure thing, Jonas,” Ted replied. “As I said, I have to work a bit late tonight,
but as soon as I’m done, I’ll be right over, trust me.”
“Good! And don’t forget to call the girls and Rob Trenton too. And Rich.
I would do all that myself, but I don’t have their phone numbers with me and I have
to buy the food.”
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Spring 2015
“You do that, Jonas. And get a lot, because I’ll be one hungry man when I
get over there. And those girls pack away a lot more than you’d guess just looking at
them.”
Bill and George were both out, but Jonas left messages with Bill’s wife
and George’s mother before leaving the phone booth and heading for Schwartz’s
Grocery. As he selected boxes of fancy crackers and cookies and studied the variety
of beers awaiting his choice, excitement and hunger vied for mastery in the region
of his stomach. Suddenly he cared deeply about the difference between chocolate
cookies and fudge-striped cookies; he peppered a bored teenage clerk with questions
about the relative merits of cheddar and mozzarella, and bought an entirely uncalledfor box of chocolate creams. With deep affection he recalled Ted’s preference for
round crackers instead of square ones, and he chose green paper napkins because he
hoped they would please Judy.
Struggling homewards under several enormous paper bags, Jonas began
to be tortured by doubts about the cleanliness of his apartment. But as he valiantly
scaled the three and a half flights of stairs to his door, excitement once more gained
the upper hand. So extraordinary was his mood that he even smiled at old Mrs. Gilbert as he passed by her on the floor below his. Wrapped in her eternal purple print
housedress, she was searching the hall for that godforsaken cat of hers, the same cat
which had gotten into Jonas’s place last year and made an unpardonable mess. “Well,
that’s a lot of food for one lone youngster, I’ll say. Having a party or something? Or
did you fool somebody into giving you a raise just for sitting in their office all day
losing their business for them?” she asked him.
“I’m just having my friends over,” he answered, able for once to resist her
sarcasms.
“Really? You don’t say. Well, that’s nice, I’ll say that. You never have people
up to see you, so this’ll be a first.”
He stopped with his foot on the first step of the last flight. “Well, I wouldn’t
say that, Mrs. Gilbert. I’ve had people over plenty of times.”
Mrs. Gilbert smiled with a kind of triumph. “Don’t try to fool me, Mr.
Simpkins. If I had a dollar for every time you’ve had somebody over here—well, I’d
be a good sight poorer than I am now, and that’s saying something, Mr. Simpkins.”
49
Contraries
“That’ll change tonight, Mrs. Gilbert. I hope my guests won’t make too
much noise and disturb you, but I can’t promise anything. At least they won’t break
into your home and turn it upside down.” He turned to go, but changed his mind
and spoke again. “And at least they won’t go home tipsy or anything.” And with that
parting shot he stalked upstairs, grinning when he heard her door slam. Most of Mrs.
Gilbert’s nights were spent in close seclusion with alcoholic beverages. He played
variations on this sentence in his mind, trying to fashion it into an epigram for use
later tonight as he balanced the groceries on his hip and unlocked the door.
Once he had manoeuvred himself into his apartment, Jonas snapped on
the electric light and peered at his watch. In a flurry of haste, he put the beer to
cool in the fridge, set the whisky on the counter, rounded up his few glasses, washed
out the mug where he kept his toothbrush, and arranged the cookies and crackers
in elaborate mosaics on his sturdy white dinner plates. That exhausted his stock of
crockery so fully that he was forced to put the slices of cheese inside the upturned lid
of his biggest pot, while the pot itself doubled as a serving dish for the potato chips.
He considered using another pot for the pretzels, but decided against it and left them
in their bag.
Stepping back, he admired the table and its burden of hospitality. People
would soon be coming; the hands of his watch already pointed to eight. With a sigh
of satisfaction he washed his hands, combed his hair, and settled in a chair by the
door to wait.
He was still waiting, alone, when his watch informed him that it was nine
o’clock. With hatred in his heart he waited until Mrs. Gilbert’s footsteps receded
down the hall. She thought she was so clever, prowling about his door pretending
to look for her cat! She hadn’t fooled him for a minute. He crept to the door and
opened it violently; sure enough, Mrs. Gilbert stepped back from it, blinking, with
that cursed cat in her arms.
“Is there anything I can do for you, Mrs. Gilbert?” he inquired between his
teeth. There was something in her eyes that enraged him more than her malice could
have done; after all, he was used to that. But now she was looking at him as if they
were all at once old friends instead of old enemies.
“I just thought that since your friends are a bit late, you might want a bit of
50
Spring 2015
help setting up,” she ventured. “Or maybe you could give an old woman a drink for
old times’ sake. I could take another look at that mirror you said Pulitzer broke.”
He looked at her for a moment, but when she tried to smile he stepped
back and frowned. “I don’t think I have enough for the both of us, Mrs. Gilbert.” He
slammed the door, and then leant his ear against it until he heard her creak down the
stairs and slam her door too, a little sadly, as if she did it unwillingly.
The chair still stood beside the door, waiting for him to sit back down for
another dreary hour. No, not again. At least he would find out what was going on.
He dialled Oliver’s number, but when it was answered he heard first a rush of many
voices and then a single voice faint against them, a woman’s voice.
“Is Oliver there?” he asked.
The woman laughed as though he’d said something funny, one of Oliver’s
jokes maybe. “Yes, he’s in here somewhere. Who is this?”
Jonas cleared his throat. “I’m Jonas Simpkins.”
She laughed again. “My name is Margaret.”
“Nice to meet you, m’am.”
“Pleased, I’m sure. Hey, why don’t you come over here so I can see who I
just met?”
“That’s very kind of you, ma’m, but I haven’t been invited. ”
She giggled again. “Heck, Mr. Jenkins, I just invited you to it myself. Come
on over. There are heaps of wonderful people and I’m bored out of my mind. Nobody wants to talk to me anymore. And bring something to drink, we’re starting to
run low. I always said Oliver was a cheapskate when it came to liquor.” There was a
sharp click and the line went dead.
He considered trying again; perhaps this time Oliver himself would answer.
But really, what was the use? For a moment Jonas considered accepting Margaret’s
invitation and joining the crowd at Oliver’s. It didn’t sound as if there’d be much
trouble getting in, if Margaret was any indication.
But then again, perhaps she wasn’t a fair representative of the people at the
party; there was always that person who came to the party excited and eager, only
to find the other guests cold, and so sooner or later took refuge in the warm arms
51
Contraries
of a cocktail or a discreet procession of glasses of wine. Jonas remembered one girl
at the office Christmas party last year, a receptionist with horn-rimmed spectacles
that made her look like a librarian. She had refused any hard liquor, pushed away the
proffered martinis, wouldn’t even taste the hot rum punch; instead she’d settled for
a ladylike glass of wine. But every time Jonas glanced over to the corner where she
sat with her legs crossed neatly at the ankle, the color of the wine had changed. First
it was red, then white, then red again, then white once more; but she always sipped
it slowly, with a polite smile fixed carefully on her face as she watched the rowdier
celebrants around the table that served as bar. He had made no effort to talk to her,
but after a while she had noticed him looking at her from his own corner across
the room, and once—it was late in the evening, just before she got up carefully and
walked in a very straight line to the door and disappeared for good—once she raised
her glass at him and smiled a little as if they were old friends who shared a secret,
although they’d never spoken. Yes, maybe Margaret was like that.
He decided to try some of the crackers—the round ones looked particu-
larly appetizing. He rummaged through the fridge for the margarine, leisurely spread
it on some crackers, and began to eat.
Halfway through the plate of crackers, Jonas caught sight of the whisky
bottle, perched beside the sink where he’d left it. Slowly he went over to it, picked it
up and looked at it almost absently. He read the label through twice, and placed the
bottle in the cupboard next to the cooking wine and the sherry. His fingers lingered
on the cupboard handle for a moment; then he filled the kettle in the sink and set it
to boil for coffee.
All at once the phone rang, and he nearly tripped over a chair in his haste
to seize the receiver. “Hello?”
“Hi, Jonas? This is Ted.”
“Ted, where the heck are you? It’s ten o’clock! Don’t tell me you’re still
working.” With an effort he kept his voice light.
“Oh no, no, I got off work a while ago, I was just having a smoke and
catching up with some of the boys. Hey, I just wanted to know if I could pick something up before I head over to your place. How are things? They swinging yet?”
“No, not exactly,” Jonas said slowly. “You did call everyone up, didn’t you?”
52
Spring 2015
“Everyone? Well, everyone is a lot of people!” Ted began to laugh jovially,
but he interrupted himself almost immediately. “I called a couple people and told
them to spread the word, but I got the impression a couple of the girls had dates,
and somebody else—I think it was Bill—had his sister’s birthday party to attend, or
something. But some of them promised to show up. Did they drop by yet? I know
I’m awfully late, but I bet you some of them came by for a bit anyways.”
Jonas reflected for a minute. “Well, no. They didn’t.”
“Oh? So who’s there?”
“Just me. Nobody came at all.” He smiled a little before placing the next
blow. “Nobody showed up, not even the people at the office I invited this afternoon.
I guess they have better things to do.” He stretched his legs under the table and
pushed the plate of cookies slightly to the left.
“Well—” Ted cleared his throat. “Well, it’s just a question of organization.
It was a bit spur of the moment, you know. People have plans, and they’re not really
good about just dropping in at the last minute.”
“Though it did seem to work with all of us last week. You know, at Oliver’s.
He just told us to come by, and we did, and so did all the others. That was even more
spur of the moment than this.”
“Well—Well, that was different. Anyways, we’ll make it work some other
time, I’m sure. We’ll plan it all out—Maybe next week. Anyways, there’ll be better
times to talk about it. Right now I’ve got to go.”
“Aren’t you coming by to help me drink all the beer?” Jonas asked with a
nervous laugh. “I’ve got plenty. ”
“Jo, you know I’d love to come, but I just can’t. It’s getting late, and working
all evening really took it out of me. See you tomorrow, maybe? Talk to you later, Jo.”
Jonas replaced the receiver almost with tenderness. Walking to the window,
he adjusted the blinds a little, turned on the radio. The genial voice of a well-read
man offered him the Five-Foot Shelf of Classics for the low price of $5.50, “an
incomparable bargain, for within these pages you will find a band of friends who
will make you laugh, make you cry, and always be there for you, no matter how you
fee—” Jonas viciously snapped the radio off again and considered hurling it across
the room, but contented himself with kicking the table and setting the crackers danc53
Contraries
ing. Some slid over the rim of the plates onto the table; he left them there with a faint
and confused sense that justice had been done, although how and to whom remained
vague.
Wandering into the bedroom with his coffee, he leaned his head against the
window and stared down into the alley, where the garbage cans rested against the
walls with the easy confidence of old friends. The buildings opposite were sprinkled
with lights; some of the curtains were open, and now and then he caught a glimpse
of people talking, or dancing to the radio, or washing dishes. Somebody was having a party; guests overflowed onto the fire escape and lingered there, flirting lazily
between cigarettes. One man tried in vain to point out the major constellations to an
especially pretty girl, hampered partly by the fact that the streetlights blurred the stars
past recognition and partly because he did not know the names of the constellations
himself. Jonas watched them angrily at first, then sadly, affectionately, sentimentally,
and at last sleepily. He felt quite full from the crackers, except for a little hollow
around his heart that ached resignedly as he watched the people opposite taste their
birthright of joy.
When he awoke some time later—how long it had been he didn’t know—
most of the lights were out, but a little group still sat on the iron steps of the fire
escape, swinging their legs over the brick-paved abyss. Staggering to his feet, he
pulled off his coat and tie, flung them over a chair, and switched off the light in the
tiny bathroom before collapsing face down onto his bed in the darkness.
Only the kitchen light stayed on above the paltry feast on the kitchen table,
laid out as on the altar of a fickle god who had found richer offerings elsewhere
and snubbed his humbler followers. But the flies that wandered into the apartment
through the torn screen of the kitchen window had no objection to any of the food,
taking with generous hands what was freely given.
54
Spring 2015
Speaking Through Silence
Carolyn Dufresne
Charcoal
55
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Nathan Pacer
Walkway in the Dunes
O
n a small
island in the Carolinas, two large, aloe-like plants stand rooted
on opposite sides at the front of a wooden walkway, which extends across
a shallow stretch of sand dunes. For ten years I was conscious of the beach and
ocean that lie at the terminal end of the walkway; for ten years I was conscious of
the civilization that lies on my side of the walkway, and for ten years I was conscious of the thick, untamed dunes writhing under the walkway. Yet in these ten
years of my consciousness, and a limited consciousness at that, these two seemingly unimportant plants deemed it imprudent to leave the shaded garden of my
unconscious mind for the sunny pastures of the conscious world. But after the
tenth year was out, when I was about to cross the weatherworn walkway, to my surprise I was confronted by two green towers. No longer did these two plants stand a
meager three feet from the ground but instead extended toward the heavens. From
each leafy base emerged an asparagus-like stalk that stood nearly twenty feet tall,
crowned with flowers.
I did not know what to make of this change in foliage, and one might
view it as nothing more than such—but I certainly knew that there was more.
“Do omens lie in the maturation of plants?” I wondered. I had never
given much weight to augury nor to the alleged forebodings present in the tangled
entrails of sacrificed animals, nor would I do so now. Yet I certainly knew that there
was more.
Did these plants intend to warn me of dangers ahead? Certainly no wolf,
lion, or tiger hid in the dunes, biding its time until it might ambush me—but I certainly knew that there was more. There was more to the intrusion of these plants
into my consciousness than a simple, aesthetic embellishment of the seascape.
56
Spring 2015
What did these plants have to say? I fear that speculating about the purposes and
designs of plants is futile, but maybe speculating about the designs and purposes of
their creator might instead prove fruitful. On occasion, I am given to such curious
examination, but I did not make such examinations then and I will not now. Nonetheless, the appearance of these two green towers made me conscious of myself
57
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Monica Bushling
The Doomed Flight
A
nd so it
comes to this: the sun is rising;
Eyeless, we gaze upon an alien morn
And pray for night. But is it so surprising,
Given these cancerous times to which we’re born?
We all went joyfully up to pierce the high
Threshold, oblivious to our children’s cry;
The tumored earth below at last receded.
Upward: for now the sky seemed all we needed.
We never made it to our destination;
Down we went, with iron wings outspread—
Four hundred eighty seconds filled with dread.
Alone we felt that celestial sensation,
Mortals though we were. As birds we fell,
And with us, all the secrets angels tell.
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Spring 2015
Jacob Cornwell
Vespard’s Emporium
L
adies and gentlemen
and others, beings from Earth, Kobul, Kepler, and Vul-
can, welcome to my humble museum,” Vespard proclaims with a dramatic
sweep of his top hat and cane. “Here you will see artifacts that will shock your
senses and harrow your souls, yes, your very souls; for within these vaults you will see
the past: the good and the bad; the mysterious and the terrifying. This way.” With a
flourish of his deep purple cloak he turns on his heel and glides—for Vespard never
seemed to walk—down a hallway lined with glass display cases and shelves upon
shelves of artifacts from the time that was. “Here we are, our first stop,” he says with
another flourish. The crowd of visitors stop and gather around, craning around each
other for the best view. “This is a book,” Vespard says, sweeping an arm over a glass
display case where a closed book sits. “Long ago, humans would write down stories
on pieces of paper and bind them together for other humans to read. I see we have
a few humans in our audience today,” Vespard says, touching the brim of his hat and
bowing to a family in the front of the group. “Do you recognize this book?”
The mother of the family, with her hands planted firmly on her children’s
shoulders, leans over and gazes at the cover of the book. “It’s Harry Potter. My greatgrandmother had a copy of that book, it belonged to her family; she hid it in her
house and we never found it when she died.”
“Well, this is a first edition; the only one left in existence. You will not see
another like it in this or any universe.”
“You mean people would hold those and read them?” A Wraithling girl
from the Lagoon Nebula timidly asks.
“These humans of old were incredibly strong,” Vespard says, whose slender
figure, it appears, can barely support the weight of his own clothes. The Wraithling’s
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eyes grow large and she shrinks back into the folds of her mother’s gown. “Moving
on,” Vespard says, turning and gliding further into his museum. He stops the guests
before a large box connected to a brass megaphone. “This is a record player. What
humans would do is they would place a large piece of plastic in here, like so.” With an
exaggerated flourish, he withdraws a record labeled A Hard Day’s Night and places it
on the turntable. He delicately places the needle on the record and pulls a lever. The
audience draws back and gasps when they see the record begin to spin and they hear
the noise of the motor inside. A few of them actually scream when the music comes
out from the large megaphone. “Ah, ladies and gentlemen, you have seen nothing yet.
Here, you will see things beyond your wildest imaginations; you will see things not
even our greatest poets or madmen could dream up, things belonging to your darkest
and wildest dreams.”
Vespard guides them through his collection, showing them a selection of
objects from all periods of history and from all different galaxies. Finally, at the very
back of his museum, he stops before a large, empty glass tank. “And now, ladies and
gentlemen, the pièce de résistance,” Vespard proclaims. “Gather around, gather around,”
Vespard says, beckoning them closer. “Children in front; that’s it. I am sure you are
all familiar with the Legend of the Ageless Man?” The children’s eyes grow wide
and even some of the adults give nods of recognition. “Yes, the man untouched
by time, of incredible strength, and who cannot be injured.” Vespard leans over
and says to the children in the low voice, “I’m sure your parents have told you that
this is no more than a fairy-story, a legend from days long forgotten. Well,” Vespard
says, straightening and savouring his audience’s looks of enraptured terror, “I stand
before you today to say that he is not a legend, he is not some myth, he is not some
fantastical creation of a bard of long ago, no, he is real, and he is here, even now in
our very midst.” Several members of the audience turn their heads to and fro, searching for this monster. Vespard laughs softly. “Ladies and gentlemen, you are looking
in the wrong place.”
Vespard bangs his cane on the floor. A mechanical clicking sound fills the
air, causing the children to shrink back in terror to their parents. A platform slowly
rises in the glass case; steam let off from the machines rises with it, obscuring the
contents of the case. With another bang on the floor, the glass case slowly raises,
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Spring 2015
releasing the steam. “Behold,” Vespard says, lifting his arms, “Found in a grave deep
in the mountains of Antarctica of Earth, the man whom time does not touch, whom
no sword can pierce, who cannot die.” The steam clears and reveals a metal bed with
a human figure strapped to it. Those in the audience who did not scream were too
terrified to scream and simply held their mouths open.
“Yes, ecce homo, as the Latins of Earth used to say. Come forward, those
who dare, and touch him.” Vespard glides around the back of the bed and strokes
the man’s bare chest with a long, pale finger. “He is as flesh and blood as any of
you, and still warm, as if he is only sleeping; but do not fear, nothing can wake him.
Come, come forward.” Vespard gestures to the figure. “Feel for yourself his pulse,
the warmth of life.” A few hesitant audience members venture forward and prod
the figure’s leg only to jump back as if expecting the figure to suddenly start up and
attack, but he does not stir. Even after they prod and stroke and examine every inch
of his form. “Scientific analysis of his clothing,” Vespard continues, “shows that he
was entombed at the beginning of the twenty-third century, over a millennium ago.”
Vespard watches the audience as a magpie watches his treasure. “That is enough,
back away,” Vespard says, shooing them all back. “Let him rest in peace.” He bangs
his cane twice on the ground, and the glass case descends once again. “Thank you
for joining, and I hope to see you again very soon. Follow me,” Vespard says with
another flourish of his cane and slides back the way they came.
A human man dressed in a fashionable suit catches up to Vespard and walks
along side him. “Do you know his name, Mr. Vespard?”
“Excuse me?”
“Your specimen, there,” he says, gesturing behind them.
“Oh? Another curious soul searching the past?”
“You could say that,” he says.
“Good, good. I remember when I was your age, almost a century ago, now,
and how fascinated I was for the past,” Vespard says. He gazes off into the distance
for a moment.
“So,” the man says, “Do you know his name?”
“No, I do not, sadly. Very few do. You see, the grave they found him in
was unmarked. They were only able to identify him through the myth. Amazing
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how a simple story can do that. ‘Behind every myth there is some truth’ as my dear
Father—may he rest in peices—told me. However, the legend mentions a journal of
the man’s adventures chronicling how he came by his incredible power.”
“Well, Mr. Vespard, what if I were to tell you that my employer happens to
be in possession of this journal?”
“My dear fellow,” Vespard chuckles, “I would say that he is either extremely
lucky or a—” The man only smiles knowingly and Vespard’s eyes grow wide. “My
dear fellow, I apologize if I insulted you and your honorable employer,” Vespard
sputters, “But you must understand, any record of the journal disappeared after the
First Galactic War; it hasn’t been heard of for several centuries. You must forgive me
if I am more than a bit skeptical.”
Broadening his smile, the man pulls from his pocket a holopage and shows
it to Vespard. “Here is your proof.”
Vespard takes the page in his hands and flips through its contents. His eyes
grow wider and wider before he stammers, “My dear fellow, how did you come by
this?”
The man snatches it back, “That, you must ask my employer, he has a copy
of the original in his own collection.”
“Really?” Vespard says, suddenly intrigued. He fingers the top of his cane
and chews on his thin, white lips. “I would like to meet your employer and view his
collection; one lover of history to another, of course.”
“Mr. Vespard, I have been authorized to extend to you an offer, a trade.”
“I am listening.”
“My employer is prepared to part with the journal, in exchange for the op-
portunity to examine your legend.”
“Hmm, you make an intriguing proposition, my dear fellow.” Vespard twirls
his hat in his hands. “Most intriguing indeed. Unfortunately,” he says, returning his
hat to his head, “I cannot allow you anywhere near the prize of my collection. You
see, I’ve had bad fortune with allowing long examinations of him—almost had him
stolen once. That is why I do not allow the tourists very long. If he wants to examine
him, he can come on the tour.”
“But Mr. Vespard,” the man says, “Is not the journal compensation enough?
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Spring 2015
My employer does not wish to make you part with your prize, he only asks for the
privilege to examine the body, a more thorough examination than what is offered
here. And he will permit you to be present throughout. You see, he is, above all, a
man of science; and he believes that your, ah, sleeping beauty, holds many secrets
that would be greatly beneficial to all life.”
“Beneficial, you say?” Vespard says, twirling his goatee around his finger
and biting his lip. “I’m sorry, it is still not enough. You do not know what I have done
to obtain him, I will not let some Frankenstein share in my success.”
“My employer will also pay whatever you deem necessary.”
They had reached the entrance to the museum and Vespard turns to his
audience. “If you please, follow this lovely young woman to your shuttle. And thank
you for coming, and I do hope to see you again,” Vespard says with one last flourish.
The man hangs back until everyone else had left. He approaches Vespard
when the final guest releases his hand and says, “So, name your price.”
Vespard rubs his hands and narrows his eyes. “The original journal and one
million for one hour of examining the body.”
“He will give the journal and three million for two hours,” the man re-
sponds
“Done!” declares Vespard, holding out his hand.
The man grasps it firmly and hands Vespard a data card. “Here is my em-
ployer’s contact details. Call him at your leisure to discuss the details.”
“Wonderful,” Vespard says, depositing the card in a pocket. “It was a plea-
sure doing business with you...I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name?”
“Call me ‘White.’ And I represent Doctor Marlin.”
“Well, thank the good doctor for me. And I hope we meet again, Mr.
White.”
“Just ‘White.’ Goodbye, Mr. Vespard,” White says with a final smile. With
that, White turns and walks away.
Vespard turns and walks off through his museum again, twirling his cane
through his long fingers. “Hohoho, Vespard, you old rascal,” he chuckles to himself.
“Not a bad bit of haggling there, old boy; you’ve still got it.” Vespard looks at the
data card, where was the picture of a severe, thin looking man with black hair, sunken
63
Contraries
eyes, and a pointed nose. “Thank you, Doctor Marlin.” He tucks the data card away
in a pocket. “Three million,” he says to himself, “And the journal. Ha! Vespard,
you’ve done it again.” Vespard leaps into the air and clicks his heels in glee. “What a
day, what a day.”
Buffalo on a Bench
Monica Bushling
Ink Pen
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Spring 2015
Jacob Cornwell
Buffalo
B
uffalo1 buffalo2 buffalo3
Buffalo4 buff ’lo5 who buffalo6
Buff ’lo7 in Buffalo.8
But Buff ’lo9 buff ’lo10 who buffalo11
Buff ’lo12 in Buffalo13 never have
Buffaloed14 buff ’lo15 before.
Footnotes
Adjective; from Buffalo, New York
Noun; a heavily built wild ox
3
Verb; intimidate
4
See footnote 1
5
See footnote 2
6
See footnote 3
7
Noun; a large grayish-olive freshwater fish with thick lips
8
Noun; the town Buffalo, Wyoming
9
See footnote 4
10
See footnote 5
11
See footnote 6
12
See footnote 7
13
See footnote 8
14
Verb, past tense; see footnote 11
15
See footnote 12
1
2
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